


hit that beat

by iftheycare (RedMushroom)



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, Established OT3, Established Relationship, Johnny Lawrence A++ parenting, Kreese does not exist in this dojo, M/M, Miguel & Robby & Sam are all friends and watch Drag Race together, Multi, RuPaul's Drag Race UK, canon compliant offensive language, enemies to dumbasses to american next level of idiot lovers, feelings are discussed - Johnny style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29629917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedMushroom/pseuds/iftheycare
Summary: Johnny is a simple man with simple needs. He likes cooked bologna in the morning, late-night adult movies and — when he's hitting on babes — long walks on the beach.It kinda worked with Daniel, too, which speaks volume about LaRusso's stern resolution of not falling for a cheesy line.
Relationships: Amanda LaRusso/Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence, Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	hit that beat

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this song stuck in my head since it was released in Drag Race UK and I needed a way to get it out of my system - so I decided to torture Johnny Lawrence with it. Anyhow, all mistakes are mine and all the correct sentences are nerakrose who patiently edited this for me.

Johnny is a simple man with simple needs. He likes cooked bologna in the morning, late-night adult movies and — when he's hitting on babes — long walks on the beach. 

It kinda worked with Daniel, too, which speaks volumes about LaRusso's stern resolution of not falling for a cheesy line. 

("I didn’t, Johnny. I took pity on you."

"You keep telling yourself that, hon"

"Thank you, Amanda"

“Shut up. Both of you.”) 

Anyhow, Johnny also likes good music. Proper music. In his language, 80s music - the most badass of them all, and it's thanks to him that Miguel found out about all those badass songs and badass bands and badassedly tapped his feet during a badass concert.

He's so proud of him, yet so betrayed when he shows him.

"What is that." Johnny squints at the screen.

"YouTube?"

He looks at Miguel, who smiles at him like he's not being a little shit. Then, defeated, Miguel adds "It's Drag Race."

"I know what Drag Race is." 

Miguel gives him another look.

"I wasn't born yesterday, kid. I know drag queens. They just weren't on TV in my day."

Slightly confused — God knows why, Johnny doesn't live on another planet — but strangely happy about his reply, Miguel continues: "So, you know how you asked about that song?"

Unfortunately, he does. It’s the one Miguel has been humming for days in his every breathing moment.

"That song's for pussies."

And it had been piercing his skull since the first time Miguel hummed it during their morning training, painful as a tequila hangover. 

From the chair, Miguel presses his lips in a tiny line. "It's... A comic song, sensei. Anyhow, I asked my mum."

"You showed..." Johnny waves his hand in front of the screen in loss for words "to your mum?"

"What? We watch Drag Race together."

"Poor woman."

"Anyway, I told her how this song is stuck in your head, right? And she said well, tell him to listen to Ricky Martin — yes, don't give me that face!"

"What face?"

"I thought Ricky Martin wasn't in your range."

Johnny secretly liked some of Martin's songs. When you have impeccable taste like he does, you can allow yourself to fancy a couple of okay songs.

"Go on."

"She suggested that either you listen to a dumber song, or you just listen to the one stuck in your head. You know, to get it off of your system."

"That makes no sense."

"It’s worth giving it a try."

True. Yet he's the adult, so he's going to pretend he’s making his own choices; not Miguel, although the boy presses play before Johnny can think of a snappy comeback.

The most annoying song on earth is released to the room. Three queens are singing the same three words all over again. Somehow every shot seems to show a different person, so probably he’s not counting the performers correctly. Johnny's squinting at the screen, finding it challenging telling these ladies apart. Once Sam made him sit through Korean music videos, and he found that easier to understand. Miguel's singing along with the video. Johnny is baffled.

The music ends.

"So?"

"What's this called again?"

"UK Hun."

"Miguel," Johnny’s staring at the laptop. He hasn't been defeated by his step-dad, by failing his own son, by almost losing Miguel. He’s unlikely to succumb to a dumb song. "Please, don't ever show this to me. Ever again."

* * *

Except that it doesn't take Diaz for that song to be embossed in his life. It doesn't matter how loud he sings under the shower; what volume he turns the television; or how annoying the chatting of his student is. That freaking tune doesn’t die off. 

He blasts _Livin La Vida Loca_ , just once, in the middle of the night because he doesn’t want people to know about his misplaced music tastes. It’s so dumb, of course it’s a failed attempt. Manages only to piss off his neighbour who, apparently, can’t sleep through some Spanish beats. _Figures_. 

“Ricky Martin, um?” Carmen tells him in the morning, wiggling her eyebrows at him in the middle of their courtyard. “Did it work?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bing bang bong, Johnny.”

“Low blow, Carmen,” and then he bolts, because he’s choosing to live another day keeping his reputation; and because something in Carmen’s eyes told him that mocking was on her agenda.

Okay, so, that shit has to end. That _think first_ bullshit Daniel’s tried to talk him into? Not working. Utter crap. Why was he taking his advice anyway? Johnny will do what he does best when he has a problem: he’ll beat the shit out of it. He’s going to fistfight the song if he has to. 

The plan involves acting the second a note of that nightmare settles in his brain. So he starts to sing out loud _Summer of Love_. Apparently his performance is not well-received during his queuing time at Target — their loss. Then he turns on the radio while he’s driving, and later he pretends that he gives a shit about whatever this mum’s telling him about one of his students. He focuses so hard he doesn’t get a word out of what she’s saying. 

When he can’t trick his psyche, he can use his muscles. That’s what he’s good at, after all. Instead of blasting music, he’s running a mile, or doing stand-ups, tiring his body instead of his brain. 

He’s almost there. He can sense victory. But first Robby (breakfast, next day, earphones on, ignoring him), and then Sam (training, after school, messing around with Miguel) and finally Hawk (after Sam, warming up their next class) proceed to fuck up his efforts and sing along and Johnny decides that he’s going to get interned, at some point, if they don’t fucking stop.

They all end up giving him one hundred push-ups; with the threat of more if they keep singing. 

“Why are you all obsessed?”

Robby doesn’t look at him while he’s moving dumbbells back to the dojo’s storage room. There’s no surprise there. Johnny barely speaks to him. “Ask Miguel.”

“He said it’s a comic song.”

Of course, Robby winces like he’s somehow disappointed, and Johnny would say something, really, were words to be his thing; hadn't he tried to fill him up with empty promises countless times already, never keeping them. 

“Of course. You asked him.”

“Was I not supposed to?” 

“For a sec,” Robby pauses, doing what people do when they pick their words before running their mouth. “I believed you were _actually_ paying attention to what I like.”

A kick in the stomach would've left more air in Johnny’s lungs. “Drag Race?”

Robby sighs and throws a weight at him in what’s against every health and safety regulations — or so Aisha told him, when he did the same. Johnny catches it by instinct, staggering and nearly losing his balance. 

His son is already putting his shoes on when Johnny says “Since when do you like Drag Race?” just to be ignored again. 

* * *

After two days, his mental background’s playing customary white noise. The unprompted public karaoke kinda worked, although the dojo’s punitive push-ups worked better until Daniel complained about his methods and they ended up fighting in the middle of the class while Hawk recorded something called a Tiktok. 

“What the fuck is going on with that zoom and that song, Hawk. You delete that or else!”

The song is _In The Air Tonight_. 

LaRusso’s house is unnecessarily over-exposed to natural light, which is what wakes him up before the alarm. He manages to drag his feet into the kitchen, finding Daniel already buttoned up in his salesman suit, cooking and humming like there are no ugly truths in this world. Johnny stares as his brain reboots, noticing it just before Daniel could ask him twice if he wants coffee. 

“What the shit is going on in your mouth, LaRusso?”

The spatula slips on the pan as Johnny approaches the posh small cups that Daniel uses for coffee. Because he has to be that kind of prick. 

“Good morning to you.”

Johnny grunts. “What are you singing?”

“Oh, you wouldn't know.” He smirks, all happy and satisfied like he beat Johnny at music knowledge. In his dreams. 

“I mean, I know what you’re singing. _Why_ are you singing it?” 

Daniel's eyes flick from the eggs to him, and there's a spark of fond surprise in them. “Do you watch Drag Race?”

Is everybody on this planet watching that? “No.” 

There’s a _I-knew-it_ look that passes on Daniel’s face, followed by him turning off the stove and equally distributing scrambled eggs on their plates, already filled with toast and bacon. Johnny’s stomach growls; his head throbs with the neverending _bing, bang, bong_ that pinballs over his thoughts. 

“Has Robby shown you the clip too?”

There’s a rush of blood running in his ears, the familiar feeling of wanting to kick Daniel makes his fist clench. It’s an instinct, really, redirecting the hate towards something that it’s not himself. “Miguel did.”

Daniel nods, finally shutting up, and instead of messing with his face Johnny decides to mess with his schedule. He invades his personal space with an attitude and turns up Daniel’s well-ironed collar and Daniel grabs his wrists before Johnny can undo his tie. “What are you trying to do, now?”

“Payback. For the song.”

“Are you completely nuts?” 

“What?”

“Are you trying to undress me in my kitchen?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Daniel physically can’t facepalm, but his expression tells him that he would if he could. His grip tightens around his wrists, so maybe he irritated him just enough to sparkle an argument. “What, is this a way to make me run late for work? Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“And you’re not even proposing sex. You’re just being irritating.”

“I didn’t say anything about sex.”

“Here I am, trying to have breakfast like a normal person, and you are losing your mind over a catchy tune.” 

Phrased like that, Daniel seems to have a hint of reason. Johnny’s not completely insane. “I’m fucking not.”

Daniel laughs of his misery. “So it’s stuck in your head?”

“Was. Managed to get it out until…” 

“Alexa,” Daniel says out loud. “Play _UK Hun_.”

_Playing UK Hun, by —_

“Alexa, shut up!”

The Amazon machine from hell stops, damage is contained, and Johnny releases the tie before Daniel can open his mouth again, telling himself that he’s unplugging the damn machine. 

Sometimes he asks himself what he sees in that man. 

Maybe it’s because he fucks him alright, or because he could beat his ass and pin him to the ground when he lets him to. Yeah. That checks out to what he finds hot.

“Would you stop being a prick and tell me what’s wrong with you?”

“Since when does Robby like Drag Race?”

“Oh, I’m not sure when the new season started to air, because Amanda and I are more keen on the US version, but…” His black stare must’ve delivered the message because Daniel doesn’t finish the sentence, and there’s a drop of understanding colouring his features. He clears his throat, “I think Sam got him into it last summer.”

Johnny nods absentminded, and speaks exactly when Daniel does:

“Wanna talk about it?”

“What kind of fake spatula is that anyway?”

Startled, Johnny doesn’t understand why Daniel would want to talk about Robby with him. “Talk about what?”

“What’s wrong with my spatula now?” the way he looks, all ruffled feathers. Johnny blinks idiotically. 

“It’s what, plastic?”

“Silicone.”

“It bends. Like, silicone is to fix shit. Even I know you’re not supposed to eat it.”

“I’m not eating the spatula, Christ. it’s for the pan.”

“Oh, right. Sure.” Johnny looks at the pan. “Let me guess, they sold it to you like some mumbo jumbo new tech, and now you’re left with a spatula that can’ even flip your pancakes properly.”

“Firstly, no, it’s to avoid scratching the pan. See, this is old school Okinawan cookware. The non-stick lawyer is made of —” Daniel grabs the pan as he speaks, moving the other hand and Johnny stares at his hands through the infodump — but the whole voicing about traditional Japanese cooking stuff (he think it’s traditional, he picked up that word somewhere) it’s enough to put his brain into no-sound mode. Volume isn’t needed to appreciate Daniel’s hands. 

“Sure it is, nerd.”

“Secondly, pancakes flip alright. There’s a technique to it, let me —” and the dumbass grabs the pan and the pan-inedible-spatula and adds “Let me show you, because It’s all in the wrist.” before making a movement that seems like a regular cooking thing to Johnny.

“Spare me, LaRusso, I saw your _wrist technique_ plenty of times by now” and then proceed to mimic it, because Johnny is a firm believer of acting before thinking, and now Daniel is staring at him with a bright, arrogant smile on his face.

“Is that your limp wrist technique?” 

“No, this is.” and he proceeds to move his wrist differently, until he realises, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. Fuck. That’s his life now. And Daniel isn’t moving, not interested in his spatula anymore, given that Johnny is clearly a funnier shit-show. 

“Well,” he says, “my limp wrist technique and I are going to eat. Help yourself, hn?” Daniel grabs his plate and pats Johnny on the shoulder. “Let me know if you want to discuss Drag Race some more.”

“Fuck you, LaRusso”

“Alexa, play —”

“Alexa, I swear to God —”

_Playing Losing my Religion by R.E.M._

* * *

After, while they’re actually having breakfast and Amanda is making some more coffee and Daniel isn’t actively being an asshole, he starts again. “Do you want to talk about Robby then?”

Johnny doesn’t believe in talking and all that bullshit, because it never worked with him; and because getting into an actual fight fist thing in the morning is his definition of a good morning, when he’s wearing something else other than a pair of boxers. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“So you’ll just resolve to useless punishments during training?” 

“Why is he talking to you anyway?” 

The thing is Daniel let Robby down; he yelled at him, kicked him out, got him arrested. Yet somehow, puff, all is fixed with the LaRussos. 

“He’s… sort of talking? I mean, it’s a work in progress.” this time, his words don’t sound like a personal attack. Then he adds. “You gotta be there for him, that’s all.”

He tried. Was trying to, anyway, before Kreese tried to steal his dojo. 

“For what it’s worth,” Daniel continues, almost tentatively. “I’m not trying to be _you_.” 

And the keyword is that — Daniel isn’t him. 

_Playing For All It’s Worth by Buffalo Springfield_

“Fucking hell.” Johnny is unplugging the damn thing. Great way to avoid Daniel’s eyes for a while. 

* * *

Alexa unplugged and lessons starting in the afternoon, Johnny spends an hour googling Drag Race. He watches the videos and discovers that the show has two versions and doesn’t understand a single joke he reads on Reddit.

By the end of it, he’s left with only one thing to do: texting Daniel.

_I think you would look alright in a dress_.

_I’m in a meeting_

_That’s for the wrist technique, asshole._

* * *

(Daniel looks at his screen feeling maybe perplexed, but most definitely confused. Amanda, by the look of it, would say he’s either reading a spam text or trying to decipher one of Johnny’s weird attempts to live in the two-thousands. She raises his eyebrows at him, and in turn he passes her his phone under the table.

Amanda blinks. “Is this some sort of insult?”

The scoff tells her that Daniel’s as lost as her. “That man is stuck in the eighties.”

She tilts her head while Anoush starts to connect his laptop to the projector. The phone buzzes again. “Oh, wait.” she passes the phone back, and Daniel doesn’t read the second text, slipping his phone in his jacket’s internal pocket. “He’s trying to pull your pigtails.”

And then Anoush starts his quarterly sales report and Daniel is actually working, for once that year, and Amanda should not be distracted, except that she can’t control the sound that comes out of her nose. Daniel whispers “What now?”

“Have you ever tried on a dress?” she whispers back, smiling encouragingly at the presentation. They share a look for a second. 

“No.”

“Because to his credit,” Amanda adds, barely moving her lips, and Daniel’s face crumples, betrayed. “I mean, you have nice legs. I can see his point.”

Daniel stares. 

“What? You know I’ll support you.”) 

* * *

He’ll discover, later, that Daniel didn’t read his second text. That he’s not even annoyed. The bastard. 

“What was I supposed to get from a single text out of context?”

Johnny raises his eyebrows.

“Wait, you were getting flustered at me in a dress, is that it?”

* * *

That night Robby’s dining with him. He’s supposed to stay with him two weeks per month, since they’re trying shared custody. Truth is, Robby doesn’t care, and when he shows up it's because his mum begged him to. 

Thick discomfort passes between them. Rather, Johnny likes to think that it’s a shared thing, like some sort of old-fashioned father-son bonding moment from his own childhood. 

His son walks into the room like it’s empty, and he eats with his eyes glued to his phone. Sometimes he smiles at it, completely lost in another plane of existence.

“Are you..” he mutters, food still in his mouth. “Is that some Drag Race shit?”

Probably, not the smartest choice of words. Robby doesn’t glance up from the phone. Great. 

Johnny chews and swallows, slowly. For being a creature of offence, he’s left with nothing but his guard up. Bickering won’t work, they ain’t trained in that and they’ve got a short fuse; and because Johnny doesn’t have a model of interaction that’s not bullying, he’s left with shooting in the dark and hoping for the best.

“I can’t stop thinking of that song.” he continues, in the same way his mother tried to get things out of him when he was a teenager. “It’s like, you know, a melodic drug.”

Still, no answer. Johnny’s starting to lose his patience. 

“So maybe you can show it to me?”

Robby looks up, raising his eyebrows. “What?”

“You know, Miguel and his mother watch it together,” he starts.

“Of course.” how poisoned two words can sound. 

“Did I say something wrong again?”

“No.”

Johnny blinked. “But you like Drag Race.”

Silence.

“And I spent hours on the internet trying to figure out what the shit it’s about and I’m just more confused now.” he says with pride. 

“Well done then.” Raising his eyes, Robby is back on his personal crusade against him. 

“Listen, I’m making an effort.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. I’m here. I’m… watching Drag Race with you. Tonight.”

“I’m definitely not watching Drag Race with you.”

“I know, I messed things up. I wasn’t there when I was supposed to.”

“You didn’t even call.” he blurts out, devoid of irony. “I was in juvie and you couldn't even call? Send an email? Fuck off. _I’m here_ my ass.”

 _I am now_ , he wants to say, as he said so many times before. _I was trying to help Miguel_ , he ought to add, although that would make it worse, and that _see, avoidance is a parenting strategy, Robby, at least you didn’t turn out like me_. Better growing up without a dad than with a fuck up. 

“I’m trying,” what a feeble reply “I wrote you a letter, even.”

At that Robby makes a sound with his nose. “You can write?”

Johnny scoffs and stands up, going for the drawer in the nightstand in his room. After some fumbling and cursing, he returns to the table with a crumpled piece of paper.

“Listen, I’m a metallic spatula,” There’s resolve in his voice masking the fact that he doesn’t know what he’s saying “and I don’t want to scratch you, alright. You need a silicone spatula.”

“You fucking drunk?”

“No. I’m trying to use words.”

“You’re making no sense”

That’s Daniel's influence for him. “No, the spatula. Ok? Listen, it scratches, and —”

“I don’t need a spatula.” 

Bulletproof logic. The kid’s right. “Read this, then.”

“I won’t”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

And then, because he’s supposed to be parenting or something, he concludes: “Dinner’s getting cold.” 

* * *

Monday, Johnny stays in with the LaRussos for a teenage-ensemble Drag Race party. This is what _they_ called it. Johnny has another word for it, which he is not allowed to say out loud. But fucking hell, kids these days don’t know how to have fun or what? 

The sofa’s commandeered by a bunch of rowdy nerds, chatting and singing and throwing pop-corn at each other and not bothered by past mortal karate rivalries. Robby looks up at him when he enters the room; then he lowers his gaze, intercepting Demitri and throwing an arm over his shoulder.

“Did you talk to him?” Daniel asks, appearing next to him and when did that happen, how long has he been there?

“Gn,”

“Ever the wordsmith.” 

“I tried to use your spatula metaphor.”

Daniel looks astray. “It wasn’t a metaphor, I was trying to explain that…”

“So I think I have to bend, like your dumb silicone.”

“Do you even listen to what comes out of your mouth?” he says, in a tone that strongly implies he might be talking to an idiot. Guess who’s the idiot now.

“No, dumbass, I said it’s a metaphor. Like, I need to adapt and shit, I can't just be hard, you know.” Johnny triumphantly smiles at him, and Daniel’s ability to form sentences must’ve been lost in processing the deep metaphorical meaning of his words. 

Finally, Daniel’s brain reloads “So,” he says, leaning over his shoulder, dropping his voice, “You’re bending and you’re also hard.”

“Right.”

“In front of the children?”

Johnny looks down and wishes Daniel’s lips weren’t that inviting, just for once in his life. “Fucking hell, you’re a freak.”

Daniel's unperturbed expression gives away nothing. Then, with the same ease, he shifts away and that’s when they notice Hawk’s pointing his phone at them. 

He blinks in reply. “What. You’re Tiktok famous. Gotta keep my feed updated.” 

“Do you…”

“I have no idea what that means.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
